Always Cared For
by LoverofBooks1219
Summary: There is a legend that passes through the Herondale line, a story of a protector, a guardian for her family. She can't get too close, but she will always be there, in any shape or form.


* _Arhoswch i mi-_ Welsh, "wait for me"

Lucie Herondale Blackthorn did not like how her grandchildren were annoying her.

She loved them, there was no doubt about it. She would give up her soul just to see how these kids would grow up, what kind people they would turn into, what sort of adventure they would have.

But at that moment, she wished they would just take a nap, so that she would peacefully spend her last few days in peace, writing in the notebook her brother James had given to her all those years ago. She was a few days short of her 73rd birthday; however, she felt her end coming. She remembered, even now, all those years ago, when her father had been on his deathbed. He had arrangements made, knew exactly how to prepare for the end. He made sure everyone was accounted for, made sure everyone was there so that he could say good-bye. Even then, he hadn't been afraid.

So neither would she.

"Grandma Lucie, Grandma Lucie, tell us a story!" the youngest cried. She pulled him into her lap, with shaking hands. The end was coming closer.

"Alright, alright," she said. "Have I told you youngsters the story of my mother?" The kids shook their heads. Lucie had told them many stories; romantic, factual, pure fiction, horrors.

But all were tales of Nephilim. Adventures of her mother and father.

She began to tell the story of the century, the one that started it all, the tale of her mother and father. The way they met, the curses they both had. The wars they fought. The friends, the family, the joy and the sadness. The jokes, the demon pox, the songs, all the happiness they had in early days of the London Institute.

She told them about the man they both loved and lost.

Lucie weaved the story, made it her own—though the memory of the way her father told the story was still there, like a watermark on a contract.

Although she told the tale, it was her father's voice that she imagined coming out of her voice, as if she was in his lap. _Dadau_ , she thought, _I'll be with you soon. As soon as I tell this last tale, your tale, I'll be with you._ _Arhoswch i mi*_ , _wait for me._

She knew that if she didn't tell this story now, it would be lost forever.

"After my father, your great-grandfather, passed away, she disappeared. She had couldn't bear the death of her husband, and it nearly killed her. She couldn't stand to watch the death of her children, her family, when the time came." Lucie paused, and when she turned, she saw her mother and her father next to her. Her dark locks of hair were in front of her, and she was clutching a book, a worn copy of _A Tale of Two Cities._ It was the copy her father had given her mother, back when they were both a young couple. Her father, instead of looking his age of his death, looked as if he was a mere 20 years old, raven black hair going every which way. His bright blue eyes looked at Lucie, and his rune covered arm was around her mother's shoulders. They both looked angelic, with the same expression they had on their faces when Lucie had written her first story, about a family of four. _Go on,_ her mother seemed to say, her endless grey eyes pleading. _Finish our story._

Maybe they were really there. Or maybe, as Lucie was nearing the end of her life, and she was seeing all the people she had loved and lost. Her parents loved reading just as much as she did, and it looked as if they couldn't wait to hear the ending.

Lucie would give her parents that gift, before she left. The gift of her story.

"She went off, to continue her journey. She was a warlock, after all, so she could do anything she wanted to, go anywhere she wanted to. But she was also a Shadowhunter. She had the duty of Shadowhunters, just like you and me. She, instead, lived silently, helping Shadowhunters who passed by. Before she left, she told us she would always look after us, and our descendants. She said that we wouldn't have to worry, that we had someone we trusted to look after them, even in our deaths." Her parents had left her vision, fading away, and her eyes started to see double. She closed her eyes, knowing that she would have to end her story soon.

"And so, in the conclusion of my tale, I say to look carefully. If you see an old woman staring at you while picking up some bread, that may be her. If you're sitting in the train and the man across from you is reading _A Tale of Two Cities_ , that might be her too. She will look after you, wherever you are."

She set her grandchild on the ground, and started to go to her room, to finally rest.

"And remember, kids," she said as her last words. "All the stories are true."

As Owen Herondale walked down the street, next to his son after picking up groceries, he kept looking back, as if someone were watching him, hiding in the shadows.

It had only been a week after his Aunt Lucie's death, so it was alright to feel jumpy every once in a while—right? If anything, it was her last words before she died, the last story she told, that made him paranoid. _All the stories are true_.

The story that his grandmother Tessa was watching him—and his family—wherever they were.

He wasn't there for the whole story, but got the gist of it from his own father—James Herondale. He had told him right after their grandfather died, and then soon after Aunt Lucie died, this time with Marcus.

Or perhaps his father was so sick with grief each time, he had made up such a story. He always did love telling and reading stories. He told many to him when he was a child, ranging from sweet enough to draw tears out of him, to scary enough to make him hide under his bed. Perhaps this was just one of them.

But then again, Aunt Lucie never lied about stories. She always told the kids that all stories are based off of something true.

He had never been fond of reading. It was too many words, a jumble of them, a waste of time in his opinion. Why waste your time in fantasy and imagination when you could be learning something actually _useful_ to the world? He was interested in the _why's_ and _how's._ He didn't care if a princess rode a dragon and saved the knight. He was interested in how the princess rode a dragon if dragons didn't exist, how fast the dragon went to catch the knight before he died. Those were the questions that needed to be answered.

The fact was, that his grandmother had left his father and aunt to fend for themselves after his grandfather died. He saw it with his eyes. Granted, they were toddler eyes, but eyes all the same. He remembered seeing his father, aunt, great-aunt Cecily, and grandmother all lean over William, reading and speaking to him. Her grandmother held on to a copy of _A Tale of Two Cities,_ and read excerpts from the book. Later, a Silent Brother, and his father embraced him, whispering some words in his ear. Then they left, he hugged them both, his grandfather and grandmother, and said goodbye. At the time, he didn't know it would be the last time he would see them. He would've stayed with his grandfather until his last dying breath, would've begged his grandmother to stay, if he could.

There was no way in hell his grandmother was a warlock. Warlocks couldn't have children.

And yet…

His father had a magic trick he always showed him when he was little. He would lean back, and he would turn into a shadow. He could turn into one, then appear in his mother's shadow seconds later—and his mother would be halfway across the room. He always thought it was just that—a magic trick. He didn't think it was warlock magic.

"Dad, can we go to Andrew's house?"

Marcus was 9 years old, with dark hair and stark-blue eyes, just like his great-grandfather. Though Marcus had never met him, Owen knew that he would inherit all the traits of William Herondale that Owen didn't have. Marcus loved to read, wrote beautifully, and made sarcastic jokes in the most unnecessary of times. Owen was nothing of the sort. He had dark brown hair and gold eyes, the former from his mother, and the latter from his father. He was more of a science man, than an artist. There was one thing Owen, Marcus, and James all had in common with William, though.

It was their shared hatred for ducks.

Owen recalled a time when his grandfather was well enough to go to Hyde Park, take down James and Owen, and just sit by the pond. His father and William would sit and chat about anything and everything—the latest books they read, the recent demon attack, who was marrying who in the Shadowhunter community. Whenever a duck would come close to them, Will would take his cane and smack the duck, just hard enough so that they wouldn't come close to him. _"_ _Bloodthirsty little creatures,"_ Owen recalls him saying. _"_ _Remember, Owen, never trust a duck."_

"Maybe tomorrow, Marcus." Marcus was close friends with the Lightwood boy, Andrew. As they walked down the street, going back to the Herondale Manor, Owen thought he saw a shadow, jumping from one corner of the street to the other.

The only other person he saw doing that was his father.

He knew he couldn't just yell out _Dad!_ without Marcus thinking he was crazy. So he walked faster, trying to out run the shadow.

When he turned the corner, he saw an old lady, frail and delicate, with black hair and gray eyes. The gray eyes triggered something in him, making him recognize her. He had never seen this lady before in his life, yet her eyes seemed to make him recollect the story of Aunt Lucie had told the kids, the very story his own father had told him.

 _If you see an old woman staring at you while picking up some bread, that may be her. If you're sitting in the train and the man across from you is reading A Tale of Two Cities, that might be her too. She will look after you, wherever you are._

He looked down at his hand, holding a plastic bag containing groceries.

 _Very funny, father,_ he thought. "Excuse me, miss." He said to the lady. His hand on Marcus grew tighter, not letting go. He didn't know who this lady was, but she wasn't going to scare him.

"Very sorry, my dear," she moved away from his path. "Could you show me to the direction of the bookshop? I'm in great need of some Dickens at the moment."

"Charles Dickens?" Marcus blurted, turning away from his father. "Which is your favorite? Mine is _Great Expectations._ My grandfather reads it to me very often." The lady smiled.

"My favorite has been the same for quite some time now," she said, holding out a book. It was a well-worn out copy of _A Tale of Two Cities._

The very same copy he had seen his grandmother holding on his grandfather's deathbed. Holding, reading, clutching.

While Owen was astonished, unable to say a word, Marcus jumped up and down with excitement. "My grandfather read that one to me too! He said it was his parents' favorite."

The lady smiled at Marcus, and hugged him. She then looked to Owen, and asked, "And what is your favorite book, dear?"

Owen couldn't find his words. There had to be some kind of explanation, some kind of reasoning, as to why this old lady, who he had run into in an alley, had the same grey eyes and book as his grandmother, who had left him—his family—over 20 years ago. Even if this was her, she had to have brown hair, and she would've been over 100 years old.

People didn't even live to see sixty in London.

"Um—uh, _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ , miss." Owen didn't want to tell this lady anything, but he couldn't help it—her eyes held memories he knew, some that he shared.

"Ah, a science lad, are you?" Her accent was British, but not the type they spoke now. It held a type of age, a way of speaking that had been forgotten, that had only been recorded in books.

"Well, I'll be on my way now," said the lady. "I can figure out where the bookshop is on my own. I would not want to keep you boys from your families." She turned, and Owen caught a glimpse of her grey eyes once more. "And Owen?"

"Yes?" He said without thinking.

"Learn from your son and father. Read, and enjoy. Don't question things in life that make you happy." He nodded, still confused. He and Marcus continued down the alley, but instantly realized that he hadn't spoken his name to the lady, and she had somehow known it. He looked back, and all that was left of the lady was a dark cloak, wet from the puddle on the floor.

"Wait here," he handed Marcus the bag of groceries, and went back to where the old lady had left her cloak, and picked it up. On the tag, was written, _property of Tessa Grey Herondale_.

He stood, looked around the street for the old lady again, to say something to her, but found nothing.

He kept the cloak, deciding to give it to his father for safe-keeping, and continued to walk home with Marcus and the groceries, hand-in-hand.

Maybe his grandmother was a warlock. Maybe reading was a good pastime.

Smiling, he knew that either way, Marcus and the Herondale family would be safe.


End file.
